THE HONOR GIRL

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Yes, I guess there is,” said Gene, “but it isn’t in my line. I’ve always wanted to study engineering. The shop work’s what I’m going to like. I went over to the shop with the fellows this afternoon, and I sure am going to like that. There’s one fellow making an automobile from beginning to end. Some job! Oh, but it’s a great place! I wish you could see it.”

  Eugene had not talked so much nor so well for years. His father looked at him in wonder. He was like a new being. Jack was silent with admiration. College life loomed large before his eyes, and his determination against it for himself had suffered a severe blow. Already he was thinking of what he would do if he ever got into the university, and he sighed involuntarily as he reflected on his wasted years in the high school and how he might have been ready to enter without ay trouble by this time, if he had used his opportunities.

  All together that was a most interesting evening, for there seemed no end to the things Eugene had to tell about the university; and, when he reached the end of a tale, he began and told it over again with new touches. It was as if he had suddenly broken away from his routine of work and taken a hasty trip to Europe, he had seen and heard so much and it had stirred him so deeply. Elsie was quite content to sit and listen. Even the new fireplace was almost forgotten while they lingered around the dining table long after the maid had cleared it off and washed the dishes.

  At last Elsie remembered and slipping into the other room, touched a match to her fire, and called the rest of them; and for an hour or two they sat in the firelight, seeing visions of a future wherein new ambitions and comforts had a part.

  It came to Elsie’s consciousness once while she was sitting there listening to her brother’s talk about the university, watching the firelight play on the content of her father’s worn face, and the dreamy wistfulness of Jack’s eyes, that she had entirely forgotten about her aunt and the home she had left behind. It came to her with a pang, as if she had done something wrong to forget them, who had been so kind and dear to her. Yet how could she mourn about going into this new, wonderful place where there was so much to be done and nobody but herself to do it?

  It was all very wonderful, but after all quite exhausting; and, when she went up to her room that night, she found that she had quite as many things to worry about, if she chose to let them bother her, as she had to rejoice over. For instance, there was that frat. She had heard a lot about fraternities. What if this should be one of those that led young men to destruction? Of course Eugene would think it was all right if his friend said so, but he couldn’t judge all about it until he got into it. She wished he would wait until he could be sure what kind of boys he was getting in with. Then there was that “Tod” fellow, some old friend of his high school days from Morningside. He might be the wildest fellow imaginable. How unfortunate that Eugene should have met him right at the start! She had wanted to introduce Eugene to a few young men she knew who would steer him into the right crowd, and now it was too late! He would always stick to that “Tod” fellow in spite of anything she might say. On the whole, she had laid out a good job of worry for herself that night; and, if she hadn’t been so very tired, she might have stayed awake all night and attended to it. But as it was she had worked hard all day, and nature got the better of her. She slept soundly and late.

  Elsie had succeeded better than her fondest hopes in getting her family of grown-up boys to go to church. Always one of them accompanied her and very often all three went. It was on one of these occasions that Elsie saw Cameron Stewart again.

  It was after church that they were introduced to him. The minister was at the bottom of it. He was delighted to see that whole new family in church again, and he came straight down from the pulpit as soon as he reasonably could, to speak to them. It was altogether natural that he should also speak to the young stranger who had been to church once or twice before. It was also natural that he should turn and introduce the young people.

  As Elsie acknowledged the introduction, she wondered vaguely where she had seen that man before and what there was about his eyes that seemed so familiar. When she looked up a second time to clear the fleeting memory, she found him looking intently at her.

  “I think we have met before, Miss Hathaway,” said the young man with a pleasant smile, “our mutual friend Professor Bowen—” But Elsie heard no more. A flood of memory brought the color to her cheeks, as suddenly she knew that he was also the young man of the trolley who had seen her crying one night and she was overwhelmed with embarrassment. But the minister created a diversion with a question to Eugene.

  “You are employed at Brainerd’s, Mr. Hathaway, I think you said?”

  “My brother has entered the university, Doctor Baker.” Elsie’s clear voice brought out the information with a ring of pleasure into Gene’s face as he bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the truth of what she had said. The minister’s eyes lighted, and he looked at the young man with new respect, which Gene could not help feeling. There was also a sudden quick light in the eyes of Cameron Stewart as he looked first at the brother and then back to the sister keenly. Had the girl done all that in the short time she had been living at home, or was it a work of months past?

  “Oh!” said the minister. “Then it is your other brother, or has he too entered the university?”

  “Not yet,” said Elsie with a daring smile, “but we hope he will be able to enter next fall.”

  “Ah! That is good. I congratulate you. There is nothing like college days. I wish I could go back and have mine over again. But you are still at Brainerd’s? I mention it because there is a young fellow, a stranger in this part of the country, the son of an old friend of mine, who has just gone over there to work. It should be glad if you will look him up and be a little friendly. His name is Bently, Hugh Bently. If you come across him, just give him a word now and then. I’m sure he will be glad of it.”

  There was that in the minister’s tone that implied that Jack was not only a friend of his and a part of the working force of this church, but also that a word from him would be an honor to any stranger to whom it might be granted. And behold, Jack went forth from that church, not only publicly committed to entering the university in the fall, for he had smiled assent to Elsie’s declaration, but a commissioned messenger from the minister to a stranger who needed a kind word. Jack swelled along quite set up with the honor of it. On the whole, Elsie was very happy that day, in spite of her embarrassment before that obnoxious young man. But she didn’t have much time or thought to give to Cameron.

  Chapter 16

  There was nothing easy about the life that Elsie had chosen. To get up an hour earlier than she had been accustomed to do in the city that she might eat breakfast with her family and catch an early car, often studying her lessons all the way into the city; to forget that there existed such things as symphony concerts and teas and dinners and receptions and automobile-rides and the numberless rounds of joys that had been hers; and to rush straight home from school to see that the house was in order and cheerful, and perhaps prepare some dainty dessert that the clumsy new maid could not yet master; to give her evenings to study out intricate problems in college algebra, and to correcting and advising about “themes,” and to coaxing Jack to lie on the sofa and let her read Shakespeare, or The Lady of the Lake, or Ivanhoe, or some other classic she had carefully discovered belonged in the list of college-examination subjects; to bear sudden nameless ears of her own, and strange erratic actions on the part of the three men who were her household; to sing to them, play to them, laugh for them whenever she saw they needed it; all this was not easy. It was “no cinch,” as Jack would say.

  Sometimes she was weary enough to throw herself on her little white bed and cry; yet always, when she got near to it, the beauty of that rose-satin eider-down quilt would cry out to her, the silver frames on the wall, the silver-backed hair-brushes on the bureau, would reflect to her the love her brothers had given her, and their need and longing for her; and she would be cons
trained to rise and go on again with her burdens.

  There was one thing she did not know, and that was that Cameron Stewart was watching her, taking notes of what manner of girl she was, and very much approving her. For Cameron Stewart had been transferred to the eastern office of his firm, and was making his home for the present out at Morningside with the friend whom he had called upon the day of the memorable ride on the trolley when he had seen Elsie crying.

  But one morning coming down the street on his way to the station he saw Elsie standing at the corner by her father’s house, waiting for the trolley. Following an impulse, he took the trolley also. Thereafter, whenever he was out at Morningside, he went into town on that particular trolley, for a little experimenting showed him that Elsie always went in at the same time.

  Yet he scarcely ever got even a bow for his trouble, for she walked to the nearest seat and plunged into her book which seemed to be absorbing; and she seldom had eyes for those about her. The first two or three times he was sure she did not recognize that she had ever seen him before; but he soon began to realize that she was avoiding him with intention. She never sat down near him if she could find another seat. Yet he liked her for it, and he usually planned to sit so that her clear profile would be outlined in his range or vision. He liked to see the sweet seriousness with which she performed her work, and to watch the business-like little hand that set down decided figures and characters in her notebook.

  But somehow he did not seem to get any nearer to an acquaintance with her than if he had gone into town on the train instead of the trolley. Nevertheless, he continued to start early and patronize the trolley.

  But one evening Cameron Stewart came boldly over to the house with a great armful of the most wonderful, glowing, out-of-door chrysanthemums, pink, white, gold, and crimson. He looked like a florist as he stood at the door and waited to be admitted; and the maid let him into the parlor where the fire was flickering sleepily away and the old cat, now robbed of her gauntness, sat sleek and neat, with her paws folded on the hearth and a contented purr rumbling softly in her breast. He drew a sigh of relief as he entered and looked around. He would not have liked to have that room be the conventional “best room,” crude, stiff, and ostentatious. He had felt that it would be different; but he had not been prepared for this room, this cozy, artistic, homelike refuge from the cares of the world; for that was what it looked like.

  The big stone fireplace was finished with a stone shelf over which a latticed mirror gave the room a cozy distance. Each side of the chimney low bookcases were finished with casement windows, their lattice matching that over the fireplace. The firelight glowed over the gilt letters of the books and showed up their covers of crimson and blue and green. The old brass andirons that Elsie had found in the attic reflected the gleam of the fire.

  A comfortable couch draped in a Bagdad rug, with big crimson pillows piled at the head, was rolled out into the room in the neighborhood of the fireplace.

  All the other furniture in the room, the chairs, the music-cabinet, the big table with the pretty lamp, even the piano, seemed set in a grouping toward the fireplace, as though it were the heart, the altar, of the room. The walls were of a soft neutral tint, and the old crayon and oil portraits that hung about when Elsie came had been banished. Only two or three good pictures were left. Some small, inexpensive Oriental rugs were scattered about here and there, and the whole room looked a real “living-room,” not in any sense a parlor or drawing-room. It breathed its coziness and welcome as one came in.

  The pleasantness of it entered the young man’s soul with a fine surprise. He had brought his flowers dubiously, wondering whether they would not be going into an alien atmosphere which it was doubtful whether they could do much in the way of glorifying. Now he realized that they belonged here and would glow out from the dusky quietness, catching the gleam of the firelight and blending exquisitely with the place.

  Then Elsie came into the room, a fitting mistress of the place in her bright crimson house-gown, a little glow on her cheeks from a brisk walk she had just taken to the store for something that was needed for super, her brown hair ruffled into little rebellious curls around her face. She came forward with startled surprise in her face; which held him at a distance in spite of his strong resolve to break down the wall between them: He had risen as she came in the room and held out his flowers. “These flowers were just running riot in the yard,” he said, “and crying out to be picked. Our folks are all away for a week and you are the only person I know in Morningside. Will you take them and enjoy them?” What could Elsie do then but be gracious?

  She took the flowers from him, and made him sit down while she began to arrange them in jars and a big brass bowl on the stone mantel. They seemed to be just the touch the room needed to make it perfect. Cameron Stewart looked from her to the flowers, and was thinking how they seemed to belong together, when she turned with a pretty little gesture of delight and said quaintly.

  “O, don’t they look happy?”

  He laughed joyously. The phrase was so unusual and so fitting.

  “They do!” said he. “I was just trying to get hold of a phrase, but you have struck it exactly; they look happy. Flowers have to have the right environment to look their best, just as people do; and I believe this room was just made to set off these flowers. Everything seems to ‘look happy’ in here.”

  He cast his eyes about admiringly, and let them rest for a moment lingeringly on the slim girl standing beside the flowers.

  He did not stay more than a minute or two that first time. It was almost dinnertime. He could smell delicious odors faintly stealing through from the regions of the kitchen, and he knew he had no excuse to remain; but, as he was going out, he looked toward the piano, and noticed a volume of Beethoven’s sonatas lying open on the rack.

  “You play!” he said with a sudden lighting of his eyes.

  “A little,” said Elsie. “Of course I don’t have much time these days for practicing.”

  “I wish I might come over and listen sometime.” There was a wistfulness in his voice, and what could she do but give him permission? Although she warned him that he would be sure to be disappointed if he came.

  As he went out the door, Eugene came up the steps, a pile of books under his arm, and stopped his merry whistle at sight of the stranger.

  Stewart put out his hand.

  “You’re just getting home from the university? Then you come home every night? What a privilege!”

  “Think so? Well, ’tis a privilege since my sister’s home,” admitted the young man with a gallant glance at the girl. “But one misses a lot of things not living down there.”

  “Yes, a few, perhaps; but one misses a lot of things not being here, I should suppose; and I can tell you a university life gets mighty tiresome when one’s had it steadily without anything else. I’ve had ten years of school without any home to go to; so I know. Well, I won’t keep you. I can sniff a mighty good dinner waiting for you, so good-night.”

  “He isn’t so bad when you see him close,” affirmed Eugene as he followed his sister into the house. “Ten years! Good-night!”

  Chapter 17

  Eugene’s work at the university was going very well. He was taking hold of things with vim, and seemed to be happy in his new environment. Elsie had not been long in discovering from her friend, Professor Bowen, that Tod Hopkins was no fearful bugbear to be dreaded. He was the best beloved of the university, the idol alike of both faculty and student body, the finest, strongest, brainiest, best all-around student, athlete, and everything else that the university had enrolled in years.

  “And he’s awfully religious, too,” the principal had added. “Gives talks to the boys on all sorts of ethical subjects, and sometimes holds prayer meetings, actually prays! Doesn’t it sound strange? And yet the boys say it isn’t at all bizarre.”

  Instantly all Elsie’s fears of Tod Hopkins vanished. If he was that kind of fellow, heaven be praised! She would do
all she could to further Eugene’s love for him. And when after a little her brother came home with a mysterious little silver symbol embedded in the fabric of his vest, and announced that he was “pledged,” she said not a word against fraternities, but bent her energies toward furthering her brother’s plans.

  “Our frat puts no end of stress on marks. We want to get the highest average of any frat this year,” he announced one day after he had been duly initiated and had exchanged the symbol of mystery for a pin of enamel and gold. Then Elsie openly rejoiced that her brother was a member. He was really studying hard. The mid-semester examinations were upon him, and now was the test whether he would be able to catch up with his class. She had been fearful lest he should get discouraged, but the blessed “frat” seemed to be behind him, cheering him on to success.

  “Tod thinks I might stand a chance of getting on the scrub football team if I get through these all right,” he announced one morning at breakfast. “There’s a corker of an exam tomorrow in English lit, and I won’t have a minute today to study up, either. Have to be at shop work all the afternoon.”

  “Never mind,” said Elsie, smiling. “I’ll come home early, and go over the things, and pick out what you ought to concentrate on; and then this evening we’ll go over them together. Professor Bowen says you can do twice as much in preparing for an examination if you have some system about your preparation instead of trying to cram all creation into your brain in one evening. You want to be sure of the stories of the books you’ve read, a general outline, and be ready to have some kind of opinion on the subject-matter of each. There’ll likely be a few dates to get fixed in your mind, and I’ll glance through things, and call your attention to any passages you’ll be likely to have to locate or quote, so you can brush up on them. Don’t you worry. I’ll stick by you, and you’ll get through all right.”

  “You’re a trump, Elsie,” said her brother, flashing a look of appreciation toward her that sent her off to her school day with a warm and happy heart, and kept her thinking pleasantly, with real anticipation of the evening and how she could best help her brother.